


Sögur

by Mira_Jade



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: . . . and everything in between, . . . where Athelstan is buying nothing Ragnar is selling, Backstory, Because we all need those happy Season One feelings sometimes, Boys Being Boys, Developing Relationship, F/M, Flirting, Pre-Canon, Romantic Gestures: Viking Style, Sibling Rivalry, The truth behind stories, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-25 00:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4940458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sögur: plural of <i>Saga</i>, (1) "what is said, statement" or (2) "story, tale, history".</p><p>Or:</p><p>  <i>“As I was on my way to confess my love, I was set upon by a massive bear, whom I did battle with a spear; but no sooner was I faced by a fearsome hound, whom I strangled with my bare hands . . . And that is how I gained her heart, and her hand in marriage.”</i></p><p> <i>“Lagertha,” slowly, Athelstan could not keep himself from remarking, “told me a similar story . . . but not quite.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Shield-maiden

Where there was death, there was also the chance for life anew: both in the there-after, by the sides of the gods, and in the fertility of the blood spilled upon the wanting earth. Ragnar had been taught that lesson early on in life; he had thought his belief in that principle to be true, and yet, it was not until he laid his father to rest on the same battlefield that he met _her_ that he truly understood the wisdom of those words.  
  
Though the clashing of steel had long since fallen silent, there was still a ringing in his ears, refusing to let him be. His father's fall had been too fresh, the shock too new, and he had fought with a crazed rage against Jarl Guthrun's invading forces - honoring his sire's death in the only way he knew how. But such anger was as much an encumbrance in battle as it was a weapon to be aimed, and when he faltered - slipping on the slick terrain, only to notice a shadow falling over him as his opponent took advantage of his moment of weakness -  
  
\- but he did not fall for his mistake; he did not join the gods at his father's side. Instead, he felt a hot spray of blood splatter his face – not his own, as he'd expected, but rather -  
  
_“Get up,”_ was next snarled down at him, and he looked to see a young woman holding an axe and shield in hand, standing protectively over him while he found his bearings. “The battle is far from over, and we have not yet secured our victory.”  
  
Annoyed when he merely continued to stare at her – gaping as a fish out of water as men warred and lived and died all around them – she reached forward to tug him to his feet by the straps of his boiled leather armor. He rose with her, recovering his body's momentum in order to wade into the field of battle once more. Fighting by her side, his grief seemingly quelled in her shadow. Instead of blinding his vision, his rage merely sharpened his purpose and strengthened his every blow. He filled on that unexpected flow of strength and deadly accuracy, taken by the need to fight by her side, guarding her flank until there was not one of their enemies left standing. Then, when the battle was done and her stormy blue eyes glittered in consideration as she looked him up and down -  
  
\- the wet wood in the fire made a loud, popping noise, breaking into the silence of the night. The sound distracted him from his thoughts; Ragnar blinked, forcing himself to focus his vision on the flames dancing before him – illuminating the face of his brother, who leaned towards the yellow glow of the fire in search of its warmth.  
  
And, Ragnar reflected with a feeling he could not quite define, he was not the only one to take notice of the shield-maiden that day. His brother was wide-eyed and clearly besotted, muttering on and on about the woman with the Valkyrie's might and the gold-fire hair. “She must be Brünnhilde reborn, do not you think, brother?” Rollo continued in his praise of the woman. “For surely, only a Valkyrie can move with such grace . . . such ferocity . . . such _beauty_.”  
  
Ragnar - who had already heard his brother make similar such comparisons dozens of times that evening - merely frowned, and tossed another log onto the fire. That one too spat and sputtered as it dried out from the heat of the flames.  
  
“Those eyes . . .” Rollo continued, his own eyes misting over as he spoke – hardly noticing his younger brother's annoyance with his words. “You could gaze into Valhalla while looking into such eyes . . . Those she felled today are fortunate to be gifted such a send-off to Odin . . . I know that _I_ would cound myself as blessed to know - ”  
  
“ - she is a pretty girl,” at last, Ragnar spread his hands to say – if only to keep his brother from going on about the matter. “I'll grant you that.”  
  
“ _Pretty?_ That is all you can saw when one of the _Ásyngur_ walk amongst us?” Rollo huffed, clearly disgusted by his apparent lack of taste.  
  
“I never knew your taste to run to fair heads before,” even so, Ragnar could not help but tease - enjoying how easy it was to make his brother bristle.  
  
But Rollo merely shrugged his words aside, and his eyes took on a soft sort of glow, “Her hair could be the colour of _cabbage_ for all that it matters; it is the _fight_ in a woman that I admire.”  
  
Ragnar raised a brow, just barely noticeable in the flickering light of the fire, recalling the whispers that had reached him about Rollo's _proclivities_ , and said nothing. Yet, Rollo caught his look, and misinterpreted it. In answer, Rollo folded his arms over his chest and stared at him. When they were younger, Rollo often did so in an effort to emphasize the way he grew taller and stronger more quickly than him – and yet, while Ragnar had never quite caught up in terms of height and mass, he was certain of his holding the sharp edge of _cunning_ over his sibling, which more than made up for anything else.  
  
“I saw the way _you_ gaped at her when she saved you from an early grave,” Rollo's observation came out with a note of accusation. “You cannot tell me that I am alone in thinking so.”  
  
“I am thankful to her as a shield-sister, it is true,” Ragnar shrugged. He kept his gaze on the fire so as to avoid meeting his brother's eyes, and frowned as the yellow-orange tongues granted the kindling beneath a death in flame.  
  
Rollo looked at him for a long moment – weighing him, regarding him, Ragnar knew, though he told himself that he did not care.  
  
“I have heard tales of Siward's daughter before this day,” Rollo said next, still watching him with careful eyes. “Many men have sought her hand, but she has turned them all aside. Do you think . . . if the gods were to smile kindly on me . . .”  
  
“I think that our father has just died this day,” Ragnar finally sat up to say. His words came out sharper than he first intended, and Rollo glanced at him, taken aback by the vehemence of his voice. “Today is not a day to think of the living, but of the dead.”  
  
A shadow darkened Rollo's face, and his hand fell to where he wore their father's bent arm-ring next to the one he had just recently received from Jarl Haraldson. “Of course,” he said, his voice deepening with a grief that he had hidden behind his newfound infatuation with the shield-maiden. “You are right, brother . . . as you usually are.” His last words were said quietly, and they were touched with bitterness.  
  
Ragnar nodded once, satisfied as he laid back down on his bed-roll, thinking that to be the end of the conversation. Yet, long after Rollo leaned back to do the same, Ragnar heard his brother whisper, “But life is found in death – Father has said so more times than I can count. What if this is his parting gift . . . his final wish for the mortal world, relayed through the will of the gods? If I prayed to Freyja tonight, as well as to Odin . . . perhaps I could find the gods' blessing, while still honoring our father.”  
  
Ragnar merely closed his eyes - as if he had succumbed to sleep after a long, taxing day - and listened to the silence as Rollo gave up on waiting for his answer. The clearing was then quiet but for the crackling of the fire and the hum of the night as Rollo turned in on himself and his own thoughts, leaving Ragnar in peace long enough to understand his own mind.  
  
At last, he let his heart whisper not to Freyja, but to Frigg, asking the All-mother to look down on his future – and his match in life - in kindness when she sat before her spinning wheel. Not long after, he fell asleep to the vision of blue eyes, the colour of an ocean storm, glowing from beneath a brow splattered with the life's blood of her enemies, and he knew no more until the dawn.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
The sickle moon turned full and then waned again. By that time, the yield they were able to scrape from the fields was brought in, and Ragnar found his hands full with managing his father's farm by himself for the first. The market season was the means by which the household he had been entrusted with would falter or survive through the harsh winter to come, and Ragnar was determined that his inexperience managing their market-stall would not come back to harm those he newly had to provide for, and protect.  
  
Kattegat was bustling that day. The harbor was filled with many ships from the far north, where the soil was even harsher, and the land produced even less than their own farms. Smoked fish, pickled vegetables, and grains – along with an assortment of treasures won by Jarl Haraldson's raiding men over the season, were all ready for trade during the market week. Though Ragnar had stood by his father's side and watched as he bartered and negotiated deals and trades since his earliest memories, this was different – this was him alone with the final say in every matter, and each decision he would make was an opportunity for him to triumph or fail. He felt as Thor drinking in the ocean, not realizing that he created the tides whilst trying to empty his drinking horn - even as he swallowed around a suddenly dry throat, then more nervous than he ever was with steel held in his hand . . . for if his inexperience harmed the keeping of his father's farm . . .  
  
He would not be the only one left wanting through the cold winter to come, Ragnar knew, and it was for the others he had depending on him that his hands were uncertain and his mind raced beyond his ability to control.  
  
. . . which was why his suddenly clumsy hands failed him, and one misjudged gesture had his carefully stacked potatoes tumbling down to roll out into the main way of the market. Mindful of the milling people and animals and carts, he darted out, not wanting to lose out on a profit for the smashed potatoes. Quickly, he tried to recover his lost load, his eyes darting and his hands grasping for one after another -  
  
\- then, suddenly, a pair of long, graceful hands reached down to help him pluck the potatoes out of the roadway. He started, surprised to see _her_ – Siward's daughter, _Lagertha_ \- although, this time, with her hair more ornately braided for the market week, and wearing a blue kirtle, with red lacing, over a dark grey underdress beneath. The polished bits of carved whale-bone clasping the straps over her shoulders gleamed in the faint light from the overcast day, as did the bits of bone and bead strung into several necklaces about her throat, and for a moment, Ragnar stared, taken aback when her sea-blue eyes glittered – with amusement, he did not like to see – and finally, after shaking his head to clear his suddenly muddled thoughts, he sternly gathered his senses about him and went back to fetching the potatoes from harm's way.  
  
He was not able to find his voice until they were done stacking the potatoes once more. He darted a glance at the woman – his savior again - and said aloud, “It is twice that you have saved me now.”  
  
She gave a shrug, and replied, “It seemed a shame to let such fine potatoes be covered in dirt once more.” But there was mirth in her eyes, and her cheeks dimpled as she said so. Unexpectedly, he found himself smiling in reply to her words.  
  
“Well,” he acknowledged, “better the potatoes try to mount an escape than the goats.” Further back in the stall, he had a pen of the rather noisy creatures – which his father had been well known for breeding as an insurance for the years when the land did not yield as well as they would have hoped.  
  
“For you, perhaps,” Lagertha inclined her head to reply. “And yet, not so much for the goats, I think.”  
  
Her expression did not change, and it took him a moment to understand the undercurrent of humor in her voice. He found his smile slow to leave his face, even when he tried to school it away into something - anything - other than simply grinning at her like a fool.  
  
“Yes, not for the goats,” Ragnar finally managed to voice his agreement. He felt her eyes linger on him for a moment before she turned away to look over the rest of the stall. Though her gaze was not critical, he did not think that even the Jarl's wife could command so easy a regal demeanor as she surveyed the items he had for sale with a thoughtful tilt to her head.  
  
“Root vegetables?” she finally turned to him, and asked.  
  
“Mostly,” Ragnar confirmed. “My father had difficulty switching to cereals; the land did not wish to grow oats and barley, and so, he planted what the earth wanted to yield.”  
  
Even now, though weeks had passed, it was difficult to speak of his father without grief colouring his voice. Ragnar found his throat suddenly thick about his words, and he swallowed away their bitter taste. Life and death were the way of the gods, and he had too long mourned what was a blessing for his father – selfishly being able to only see how it was a _missing_ for him.  
  
“A special touch is needed for such crops,” Lagertha agreed – and he wondered if the approval in her voice was for his father's sage mind, or for him carrying on the wisdom of his elders. “My own father -”  
  
“ - grows the barley that feeds Jarl Haraldson's hall,” Ragnar finished for her. “My father spoke with nothing but respect for Siward and his management of his land.”  
  
“And my father too knew respect for Lothbrok's farm. His goats are known to be the best from here to Hedeby,” Lagertha inclined her head to say. She did not give condolences for his father's death, for why would one lament what was an honor for the deceased? But she did clasp her hands in front of her, as if to keep them from moving, and Ragnar wondered if she had wanted to offer her comfort, regardless. The thought was a strangely warm one, as welcome as a fire in winter-time, and he wondered at it.  
  
“Is this your first season managing his land on your own?” she settled for saying next, her fingers clasping and unclasping again.  
  
“I found myself unexpectedly thrust into my father's role, yes,” Ragnar admitted. “This is my first time to market in his place.” Just barely, he managed to quell the unexpected urge he had to share his worries about his self-perceived shortcomings with her, swallowing his words away just in time – for such was something he would only tell the gods in prayer.  
  
“When my mother fell to the sweating sickness, it took us many moons in which to recover any sort of balance in her wake. Those days were difficult . . . but water does find its level, I can promise you that.” While not a condolence, Ragnar found himself oddly buoyed by the quiet confidence in her voice. He breathed in with her certainty, and found that he stood up straighter when next he exhaled.  
  
Her eyes darted around the stall once more, and she raised a brow. “Where is your brother?” she asked. “Should he too not be here?”  
  
Ragnar fought the urge he had to snort at her words. Instead, he put his hands on the wooden beams of the stall above his head, and leaned forward to say, “My brother has the knowledge to run a farm, but not the heart for it. He does not love the land, and prefers to make his living solely off of what he can earn from the raids.”  
  
She nodded at his words, and for a moment her eyes were considering as her thoughts clearly turned away from him. Ragnar felt something unfamiliar tighten within his chest, wondering if Rollo had already approached her with his suit. Was that why she had stopped by the stall? he suddenly wondered. Was she really looking for . . .  
  
“And you?” Lagertha asked, cutting through the sudden knife-cut of his thoughts. “Do you love the land you work?”  
  
Ragnar shrugged. “I appreciate the way it provides for those who trust in it to provide,” he answered. “I appreciate the way it may feed and nurture a family with more promise than can be assured by steel alone.” And yet, there was that small, sure voice inside of him . . . whispering . . . _wanting_ . . .  
  
But he could not hope to see that wanting fulfilled if he could not pull himself though that first market season unscathed. Firmly, Ragnar forced that whisper down to rest alongside the length of his bones, there to wait a little while longer.  
  
“My father had only me and my sister; the gods gave him not one son,” Lagertha then said, looking down at the carrots. She picked one up, looked it over critically, and put it down again. “He too loved his place on the shield-wall, and he taught both of us the principles of the sword. My sister did not take to the craft – but she is just recently wed, and she and her husband have already taken over many of my father's duties with the land. They seek the gods' approval by working to see fruitage borne from their gifts, while I . . . I am determined that when my last breath is taken from me, I will not be serving mead in Odin's hall, but rather, feasting by his side. I would die a warrior's death, if the Norn let me, and seek a warrior's reward when my time is through.”  
  
Her voice was low with the intensity of her feeling, and Ragnar was able to stare openly at her as she turned her attention next to the leeks. Her brow was creased with her determination, and she held her conviction in every curve and hollow of her body, like a shield. For a moment he found himself quiet taken by her, and he could not look away.  
  
“I admit,” even so, Ragnar rolled his shoulders to say with an exaggerated casualness, “that you have a rather strong arm . . . for a woman.”  
  
Lagertha spun about to meet his eyes again, and arched a sharp blonde brow. _“A strong arm?”_ she repeated, her voice slow and lilting so as to convey her displeasure with his assessment. “Is that all you can say?”  
  
“Is the shield-maiden searching for praise?” Ragnar cocked his head to the left, and continued to stare at her. But she did not blink from the intensity of his gaze, and she did not look away. The step she took towards him was a warrior's stride - more than accepting his challenge.  
  
“I seek not of praise,” she lifted her head to proudly say, “but an _admission_. You live because of _me_ , son of Lothbrok; your very breath in your lungs is mine until that debt is paid.”  
  
“It is true,” Ragnar was nonplussed to admit. “I do owe you a debt, _daughter of Siward_. Now . . . how would you prefer to see it paid?”  
  
He stepped closer to her, and though she was a tall woman, he was able to look down at her when he stood within her shadow. Even so, she did not back away – as, perhaps, another woman may have done. Instead, she only stepped closer, and Ragnar could feel the heat from her body as she stared up at him. When she tilted her head up, her mouth was close enough to kiss, and in that moment, she shared his breath. In the half-light created by the market stall, her eyes were very bright - dancing the way the snow capped hills did during the winter nights . . . or the way cresting sea-waves did when catching upon the winter sunlight. Strangely, he found himself holding his breath.  
  
Slowly, she raised a hand between them to touch the twined collar of his woolen tunic, and traced a careful, teasing hand down the front of his chest. Her fingertips barely touching the slightly rough fabric of the homespun, but he could _feel_ the burn of her touch as a brand, imprinting his skin and marking him as lost in their wake. Her eyes were still locked with his, and he did not breathe, imagining that he could feel the barest pressure from her lips as her hand went lower, and _lower_ -  
  
\- only to move aside at the last possible moment to reach for the display of leeks to the right of his waist. Calmly, she took two without breaking contact with his eyes. When she at last stepped away from him – letting the suddenly _very_ cold air shock his rather overheated body – she pondered before taking a selection of carrots, and potatoes as well – helping herself to a woven basket to do so. She tapped a finger against the full, pink curve of her bottom lip as she surveyed the stall for anything else she may have desired, and he watched the small gesture as one ensorcelled. The smile she wore was Loki's smile, he was sure of it – all wicked slyness and slick triumph - and he found himself resisting the urge to utter a quick prayer to Odin in the face of it.  
  
“My family will eat well tonight; I thank you for that,” she said after adding garlic and onions to her gleaning. “I now consider our debt paid.”  
  
He let out a disbelieving sound from the back of his throat. “You cannot say that my life's worth is equal to a basket of _vegetables,_ ” Ragnar protested.  
  
Lagertha only gave that same impish grin, and said, “It is the equal of anything _else_ you may have to offer, this I believe.” Yet, before he could think to reply – staring, shocked as he was - she gave a quick bow of her head, and said, “I hope that the market week treats you well, Ragnar Lothbrok.” And then she turned, and was gone.  
  
Ragnar stayed, fixed in his spot, staring as she disappeared into the crowd, with only the potatoes and the restlessly baying goats left for company.  
  
He turned, and glared at the most vocal offender. Finally, he hissed, “You will speak about this to no one, hear me?”  
  
Disturbingly, the goat seemingly bleated in acknowledgment, and Ragnar shook his head before turning to tend to the stall once more.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
Not even twenty minutes later, he found his newly recovered peace interrupted by the arrival of his brother. Ragnar looked up, surprised to see him standing in the stall – for the mingling of so many visitors normally meant more opportunities than normal to spend one's riches from the raiding season on drink and gambling and other . . . _entertainment_ that usually accompanied such things, and Rollo had never been one to pass such vices aside before.  
  
“I heard that Siward's daughter was just here,” Rollo said without greeting, looking out over the heads of the milling crowd as if he could catch a glimpse of her.  
  
“You just missed her,” Ragnar said, hefting up the sack of garlic bulbs so that he could set about replacing the ones Lagertha took. After, he let his hands rest on the leeks, a frown touching his face as Rollo audibly sighed.  
  
“I have been trying to speak with her for days,” Rollo finally admitted. “But her father is a willy one; the old man has been most illusive about letting me near his daughter.”  
  
Ragnar rolled his shoulders to say, “Do not dragons always protect the fairest of hordes?”  
  
Rollo merely grunted his answer, looking around before saying, “Well, why was she here?” in a voice that was nonetheless touched with an underside of hope. “Was she . . .” he swallowed, as if he did not wish to lower himself and ask, “Was she looking for me?”  
  
Ragnar, remembering the way her fingertips brushed against chest, merely shook his head to say, “She was here for the vegetables,” and nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Mira's Viking Fun Facts:**
> 
> **Norn** : Norse fates, comparable to their Greek/Roman counterparts.
> 
>  **Ásyngur** : Norse goddesses.
> 
>  **Frigg** : Goddess of wisdom and prophesy, and patron of wives and mothers. She is Odin's principal wife, and mightiest of the Ásyngur.
> 
>  **Freyja** : Second in rank only to Frigg, prayed to for matters pertaining love, beauty, sex, and fertility.
> 
>  **Loki** : Do I even need to say? ;) The same goes for Odin and Thor.
> 
>  **Valhalla** : Norse version of 'heaven', where Odin collects the mighty dead to fight in his army come Ragnarök, the end of the world.
> 
>  **Valkyrie** : Odin's celestial battle-maidens, who reap the worthy dead from the battle-field.
> 
>  **Brünnhilde** : Probably the most famous Valkyrie from the legends, and one of Odin's daughters, at that. In short: for not reaping the mortal whose soul she was commanded to take, Odin cast her from Asgard, and put her into an enchanted sleep surrounded by flames and thorns so that only a worthy hero would be able to reach her. This hero was Sigurd the Dragon-slayer - son of the mortal prince she spared, ironically - and theirs is a long tale fraught with tragedy and made worse by a pesky magic ring. ;) Aslaug claims to be their daughter.
> 
>  **Ragnar's Tale** : Is actually taken from legend. According to the historian Saxo Grammaticus, when Frø, King of Sweden, invaded Norway and killed King Siward, Frø put the women of the dead king's family into a brothel to dishonor his memory. Hearing of this, Ragnar came with an army to avenge his grandfather Siward. Many of the women Frø had ordered abused dressed themselves as men and fought their captors - chief among them, and key to Ragnar's victory, was Lagertha. So besotted was Ragnar that he courted her from afar - even killing the bear and hound she set on him to prove his worth as a husband. This tale is clearly more legend than history - and clearly not applicable to the show - but still, it's a fun point to start from.
> 
>  
> 
> I think that's everything, but if I missed anything, let me know. :)


	2. The Bear

The market week continued to pass without further sign of Lagertha – not that Ragnar was keeping an eye open for her, for he _was not_. So far, he had turned a reasonable profit for his stall, and if his business continued as such, he'd have enough to see his household properly cared for through the cold season to come, along with extra enough to add a bonus to their wages after he paid for seed and other necessities to see the farm through for the next year.  
  
On an impulse, he stopped by the stall of a northern trader who had a booth full of jewelry. At first, he only meant to buy the earrings of polished whale-bone that caught his eye, thinking about how they would compliment Lagertha's fair hair and piercing eyes, and yet . . .  
  
He had not intended to buy a ring; he had yet to even breathe a word of his intentions to her father, nor had he even admitted his desire outright himself, and yet . . . There it was, a simple band of corded bronze, formed by three interwoven strands. It was beautiful in its simplicity, and yet, most importantly . . . the metal was hard; it would not break through the labor of working the land or the rigors of the battlefield, and the colour . . . it was slightly darker than gold, shifting to shades of copper and red in the sunlight. His eye was more than drawn, and he made his decision as an impulse.  
  
Ragnar bought the ring before he gave himself a moment to question his urge – he did not even take the time to haggle with the merchant for a more reasonable price. Afterwards, he merely shoved the ring deep into the pocket of his tunic, and left the stall behind, lost in the swirl of his thoughts.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
On the last day of the market, Ragnar walked out between the booths, and found Siward's stall at the end of the row. There were many people milling about within, and he first thought the throng of people to be enough to shield him as he looked past Siward – a tall man, who was able to keep his girth of warrior's strength into his later years. His fair blonde hair – much like Lagertha's – was streaked liberally with grey, and braided back from his face as he tended to his stall, just as his beard was braided in two strands down the length of his throat. His eyes, however, were a warm shade of grey; Lagertha's striking gaze must have come from her mother – another reason for the elder to cherish his daughter, Ragnar carefully reflected, and put that knowing away.  
  
He looked, however, and while he saw one woman tending the stall – her features resembling Lagertha enough that he recognize, Líf, her sister, he did not see . . .  
  
“Are you looking for barley, son of Lothbrok?”  
  
However, his carefully trying to keep himself small and unnoticed was for not. Siward bore an eagle's eye, and Ragnar was caught.  
  
“Oats, actually,” Ragnar replied as he turned to face the older man. “We never could get them to take on our land, and I was simply admiring the bounty of your crop.”  
  
Siward raised a thick brow – a gesture that he had already seen more than once from Lagertha – but rather than calling him on his words, he shook his head to say, “Your father often had the same complaint. But he was good at what he farmed; it seems that the gods' too saw your father's worth when calling him to their side.”  
  
“Yes,” Ragnar agreed. His voice was dry in his throat, but he swallowed his grief away with an ease that was coming to be second nature. He looked down at the oats, and sifted his fingers through the grain, frowning for his thoughts.  
  
And Siward continued to watch him. “Is there something displeasing about the oats?”  
  
Ragnar blinked, and looked up. He glanced, and once more failed to find _her_ within the stall. Finally, he swallowed, steeling himself as he would within a shield-wall and preparing to endure the brunt of an enemy's blows. Finding his courage, he said: “No, the oats are wonderful. And yet, it is not your grains I have come for . . . I wished to see if your daughter, Lagertha, was here.”  
  
“Ah,” Siward's one word was a low rumble in his chest. “I have had many men, just this market week alone, ask me that same question.”  
  
“Then its answer is one you must well know,” Ragnar replied without first considering his words. Thankfully, Siward only looked please by the wit he displayed.  
  
“Do you ask me as Lagertha's _fastnandi_?” Siward asked, and any sort of humor or welcome in his gaze faded away. His voice was as frank as arrows falling as he said, “Many men have attempted to engage me in bridal talks, yet I have only this to say: the gods gave me no sons, but I was blessed with the greatest of gifts in the form of my two daughters. My farm is prosperous, and its prosperity will continue with my eldest daughter and her husband. I have riches enough to impress the gods in what I can coax from the land, and the only thing you may offer me of value for my daughter's _mundr_ is her happiness in a marriage she will bind herself in. I knew _inn mátki munr_ for Lagertha's mother, and before she joined the gods I promised my wife that I would give her daughters away for nothing less than an equal such love. If you cannot pay the bride-price I demand, then I bid you leave now – for that is the only suit I will hear.”  
  
“Honestly, Siward, I do not know if I can pay such a price,” Ragnar answered after a moment's thought. Siward looked at him, taken aback by his answer – for clearly, it was not one he was used to hearing. “I have only just met her – so it is impossible for me to know if I feel such a love. And yet, what I do know I feel for her . . . it is unlike anything I have yet felt, and I wish to see if it may be this love you speak of. But I am honorable in my intentions, and as serious about my suit as you may rightfully demand. If she decides she will have me . . .”  
  
All the while wondering if it was the right path he chose, Ragnar brought out the bronze band he had bought only days earlier to show Siward. The ring caught on the flickering light of the candle lit to illuminate the stall, and Siward stared at the band before reaching out and carefully taking it. It was small in his large hands, yet Ragnar thought – with a whisper of Frigg's own _knowing_ – that it would fit Lagertha's finger perfectly.  
  
“If she would have you, young Ragnar,” Siward finally exhaled, “then you two would have my blessing.”  
  
“That is all I ask,” Ragnar said, clasping the other man's hand as he took the ring back. He felt strangely light on his feet then, as if his heart was a buoyant thing, just barely anchored to the shell of his body.  
  
He turned to leave the stall behind, already considering how he would phrase his suit to Lagertha when Siward called out behind him, “Yet, I would advise you to move quickly. Though many men have come and gone, there is one in particular who has paid her much attention as of late. He is a bear in your path, you may say, and while Lagertha has not yet shown him any sort of approval . . . she has not turned him away, either.”  
  
Ragnar felt a cold, icy sensation crawl up and down his spine as he thought to understand the identity of that second suitor. He exhaled, and said, “I understand,” before stepping out into the throng of the market crowd.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
The day following the close of the market, Ragnar dressed in his best blue tunic, with a border of ravens stitched into the collar and the edge of his sleeves, and put on his good boots of cowhide. He had no riches to wear, but he made certain that his face was neatly shaved but for where he was trying to grow his beard – unlike Rollo, he had to wait patiently for his to come in, much to the teasing of the former – and his skull was clean and bare where he had his head shaved to emphasize the long gathering of braids down the center of his skull, which fell neatly past his shoulders now. He tied the braids into one long, wheat-coloured rope, and made sure that the ties were as even and tidy as he could make them – knowing that more than one woman had called the effect striking before. No matter how he tried, his still short bangs liked to slip free of their confines, and he could not keep them in place for any amount of trying.  
  
Finally, he sighed, deciding that he looked as well as he could, and set out upon the road.  
  
The autumn season was spiraling towards a quick end for the early onset of winter. Already the days were shortening and the nights were turning long; the wind was quick from the mountains, and it carried a warning bite of cold upon its wings; the leaves had changed color quickly that year, and already few remained to cling to the branches overhead. The land shivered, as if taking in a breath of anticipation for the first gust of winter, and yet, Ragnar felt only warm in his step, imagining _her_ by his side through the long winter nights to come. Her arms would be warmer than any fire's glow, and he lost himself to a vision of her leaning over to whisper in his ear, awakening him to pull him outside to see the branches of Yggdrasil shimmer in curtains of light above their heads as Odin led his hunt. She would throw snow at him when he was distracted, he happily allowed the fantasy to take him, and though they would both be shivering and cold after he pushed her into the snow-bank for retaliation, her kisses would be hot as they ducked back indoors to warm themselves again.  
  
He felt a flush color his cheeks, and was so lost in his imaginings that he was surprised when a large, heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder.  
  
“I am surprised to see you on this road, brother,” he looked up to see that Rollo too had joined his path from the fork in the road that led down into Kattegat. “You do not usually have dealings up this way.”  
  
Ragnar shrugged, a dark voice whispering that he knew _exactly_ why his brother was on this road, and tried to shake the black sort of emotion that filled him away. Like himself, Rollo had adorned himself in his best, with his thick mane of brown curls carefully glossed and braided, and wearing a dyed red tunic that had faded to a rusty shade of brown, with wolves chasing the sun and moon stitched into the sleeves. With a pang, Ragnar recognized their mother's work – the tunic being one of the riches their father had left to Rollo. He wore both his own arm-band, and their father's, side by side. For a moment, Ragnar stared, before looking away.  
  
“I am heading to Siward's farm,” Ragnar admitted, seeing no reason to conceal the truth.  
  
“Siward's farm?” Rollo repeated. His thick brow furrowed, and he frowned. “What business do you have there?” he asked. Suspicion leeched into his voice, even while his eyes remained soft with the warmth Rollo normally held for him – even when they were at their worst odds.  
  
“A lesson in sewing oats,” Ragnar answered, and his smile showed his teeth.  
  
Rollo still looked uncertain for his answer; his instincts clearly telling him one thing while his mind whispered another. “Ah,” Rollo exhaled slowly. “I should of guessed.” Though his words were genial, his smile did not quite reach his eyes.  
  
“With Sawain?” nonetheless, Rollo asked carefully.  
  
Ragnar reached into his pocket, and clasped his fingers around the wedding band he had purchased, as it if was a talisman. “No,” he answered, “with Lagertha.”  
  
He waited, as if counting out the heartbeats between lightning striking and thunder rumbling. He did not have to wait but for a moment before Rollo stopped abruptly on the path, and shoved him against one of the towering aspen trees. With a quickness that bellied his size, Rollo reached down to yank his hand free from the pocket of his tunic, and when he saw the ring therein . . .  
  
Ragnar shoved his brother away in time to prevent him from taking the ring – such was not difficult, he thought next, with the way Rollo was taken aback, clearly distracted as he recovered himself from his stumble.  
  
_“Hel take you, Ragnar,”_ Rollo finally thundered when he gathered his bearings again. The hurt in his eyes gave way to anger, turning the earthen brown of his gaze as fierce and black as the ocean in a temper. “You know how long I have desired her!”  
  
“And she would not let you have her without a ring?” Ragnar returned unkindly, matching his brother tone for tone. “A woman like her is not one of your mead-hall whores to be used and discarded.”  
  
“I was prepared to make her my _wife_ ,” Rollo scathed in return, his anger clearly building in every tightly held limb of his body. “I was willing to honor her for my regard.”  
  
“And what would your regard have been after the first night of your marriage? Would you be able to hold an interest in her for a moon's turn . . . for an entire season?” Ragnar snorted at the thought, cocking his head to the side and clearly meeting his brother's gaze with his own. He did not dare to blink. “She is not for the likes of you, brother – you know that as well as I.”  
  
At that Rollo shook his head, clucking low with his anger. “So . . . you too view me this way?” his voice was little more than a wordless rumble. “Father . . . mother . . . and now _you_. But I am worthy enough for a woman such as Lagertha; I am as worthy in the eyes of the gods as _you_ are, and I am confident that they will bless me.”  
  
“Well then – we shall leave it in the hands of the gods,” Ragnar held his hands out to say. “They shall decide.”  
  
“Yes,” Rollo all but spat. “They shall.”  
  
Ragnar, who had sparred with his brother since they were children stumbling through war games behind the barn, knew how Rollo would first charge him. He moved left, and Ragnar ducked right - knowing that he had to depend on his speed to see him through. While he was certainly not lacking in either height or girth, he was not his brother, who was built like a _bear_ – and just as strong as one, too. One well aimed blow from his brother's fist could severely impair his ability to see the rest of the fight through, that he knew all too well from experience.  
  
Rollo gave an inarticulate sound of rage when he missed, and with a burst of speed, he was turning and using his momentum to barrel into him and wrestle him to the ground. Ragnar let out a breath as the wind was knocked from him, but he was just as quick to retaliate - going for his brother's ribs as he tried to punch the larger man off of him. Rollo only exhaled once in pain, however, and held on as they both tumbled in a tangle of blows and limbs over the damp ground. Rollo struggled to get the upper-hand, and at last pinned him in the mud – and, Ragnar noted with dismay, he was attempting to wrap his hands about his throat. Though it would not be the first time his brother held his life in his hands in such a way, he did not _quite_ trust him now as he would during a more friendly spar. Feeling a sense of urgency fill him as Rollo tightened his grip, Ragnar groped around on the forest floor for a rock, and struck at the side of his brother's head as hard as he could.  
  
The blow only stunned him, however – not that Ragnar expected anything less. Rollo was impressively thick-skulled - in more ways than one.  
  
With a roar, Rollo launched himself forward again, and Ragnar reached for the next weapon available to him – a long branch in the underbrush, thin and weighted enough like a spear that he was able to use the weapon's longer reach to keep his brother from landing another blow on his body. Such only infuriated Rollo further, and heightened the blood-haze that was quickly filling his eyes.  
  
“Come on and fight me, Ragnar,” Rollo growled. “Or do you fear that the gods truly do favor me more?”  
  
Feeling the battle-lust quickly rising within himself, Ragnar's face turned in anger. He bared his teeth and rushed for his brother, moving more quickly than Rollo could keep up with as he struck anywhere he could find with fists and stick both. Finally, he saw his opportunity and hooked his leg around the back of his brother's knee, bringing him down with one practiced move. Viper-quick, Ragnar recovered his balance, and held the sharp, broken end of the stick over his brother's heart. He applied a warning pressure, forcing Rollo to keep still.  
  
“Do not make me inflict permanent damage, brother,” Ragnar nonetheless threatened, pushing down until Rollo found it hard to breathe. “Do you yield?”  
  
Rollo only turned his head, and spat on the ground – and that answered that. Sighing in annoyance, Ragnar turned the stick, and struck as hard as he could against his brother's head with the thicker end. This time, blessedly, Rollo slipped into unconsciousness, and Ragnar slipped down to sit on the forest-floor next to him, relieved.  
  
It took him a long moment to recover his breath. “I am sorry, brother,” Ragnar finally whispered when he did, even though his words were heard only by the cold and the towering canopy of the wood. “But I cannot let this woman go. Someday, I hope that you can forgive me.”  
  
He reached over, and arranged Rollo's hulking mass so that he did not rest in such an uncomfortable position. He'd awaken soon, with only a headache setting him any the worse for the wear. Ragnar sighed as he patted his brother's shoulder, knowing that Rollo would not speak to him for a long time after this one - but he knew his brother, and he knew his heart underneath anything else he professed to feel. He would be back, like a river finding the sea; they could never be parted for long.  
  
That said, he left the bear sleeping on the path, and carried on down the road alone.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rollo as the Bear** : Well . . . this wouldn't be the first time Rollo has played the role of the bear, just saying. ;)
> 
>  **Hel** : Loki's daughter and goddess of the dead, who received those who did not die in battle in her halls - which was not somewhere a warrior wanted to end up.
> 
>  **Fastnandi** : A woman's male relative, either her father or her brother, usually, who negotiated her marriage.
> 
>  **Mundr** : A bride-price, you could simply say.
> 
>  **Inn Mátki Munr** : Most Viking marriages were business contracts, exchanging money and uniting families, but a woman's disapproving the match was said to be bad luck, and when a couple felt _inn mátki munr_ \- 'the great passion' - in their union, it was viewed as the most cherished of blessings from the gods.


	3. The Hound

Once he came to the fork in the path that led to Siward's farm, Ragnar stopped by a forest pool he could hear bubbling in the wood to clean his face and smooth what he could of his hair back into place. Frowning, he quietly cursed his brother as he did what he could to wipe the mud from his body and the blood from the now impressive gash marring his brow. His knuckles were scraped and his tunic was sullied, and he did not _at all_ look as he'd like to offer his suit to Lagertha . . . and yet, when he looked into the pool that one last time he thought to see his father's eyes staring back at him. Perhaps, he allowed himself to hope, he had more than just his own will involved in this, and if the gods saw fit to bless him . . .  
  
After one last sigh, Ragnar decided that he was as presentable as he could be, and turned down the path leading towards the farm.  
  
He had to walk carefully in the yard as chickens clucked about his feet without a care for his path. To his right a goose fluttered its white wings, trying to scare its smaller cousins away from the grain that had been left for them to peck at and glean, but to no avail. He could hear the distant whinnies of horses from further back on the land, and a dog barked in greeting to some man going about his tasks for the day. There was a woman churning butter by the back entrance to the kitchens, and she pointed into the longhouse for the lady of the farm when he asked.  
  
Ragnar took in a deep breath, and entered to see not Lagertha, but her sister. Líf's hair was a darker shade of blonde than her sister's, and her eyes were the same warm grey that Siward favored, but they glittered in a most familiar way as she informed him that Lagertha should be near. He was bid to sit and wait, and he did so, looking about his surroundings and growing dismayed to notice that in just that one room alone he saw trinkets and gifts of flowers aplenty. He then wondered just how many suitors he had to contend with outside of his brother, and felt the first whispers of doubt creep in to pierce his heart.  
  
Líf noticed his gaze, but she did not say anything as to the questions in his eyes. She merely went about her tasks without speaking, only humming under her breath as he tapped a suddenly restless hand against his knees.  
  
But he did not have to wait long before hearing the chickens squawk in alarm as someone rushed through the yard, and a moment later Lagertha ducked into the longhouse to immediately find her sister's eyes. He stood, and her glance only turned to flicker over him once before she locked gazes with her sister. It took a moment for him to understand that there was concern etched onto her features, and when she spoke her words were quick and jumbled.  
  
“I cannot find Asný,” the admission tumbled from her mouth, and in reply, Líf's eyes widened.  
  
“Are you sure?” she asked, but even as she said so she untied her apron and wiped her hands clean on the cloth.  
  
“I am certain,” Lagertha replied. She bit her lip, and had to swallow in order to find her voice. “They have just started to amble away from their mother, and if . . .”  
  
“I will help,” Líf was quick to say, interrupting her sister before she could finish her words. She reached over to clasp the younger woman's hands in her own, and squeezed affectionately. “There is not yet reason to fear the worst.”  
  
“Of course,” Lagertha said as if trying to convince herself. “You are right.”  
  
Ragnar stepped forward, feeling a strange twisting in his chest in reply to the clearly written worry on her features. All of the pretty words and carefully rehearsed speeches he had prepared suddenly fell short, and he felt the urge to offer his assistance bubble from his mouth – but he had no chance to offer his aid before Lagertha turned and briskly strode from the house.  
  
Líf followed her sister, and asked the woman churning butter to help her search the barns and the farmyard, while Lagertha agreed to search the outlying borders of the property. Easily, Ragnar fell into stride next to her and asked, “Who is Asný?”  
  
Lagertha's cheeks coloured; for a moment her mouth worked without a sound, and he understood that she worried for his opinion of what she would next say. The knowledge that she cared for his regard made a quick burst of something warm rise within his chest, so much so that he almost did not hear when she cleared her throat and gathered her courage to say:  
  
“My sister's husband . . . his father raises hounds, and for my sister's _mundr_ they gave one of their best breeding females. She just had her first litter, and Asný . . .”  
  
_Was a puppy_ , Ragnar then understood. Now, rather than leave the little one's fate to the gods . . .  
  
“You are fond of her?” Ragnar simply asked.  
  
Lagertha fixed her mouth in a thin line, as if debating between admitting to the softness of her caring and yet knowing that she could no longer pretend at apathy. “She was the smallest; she ought not have lived . . .” she finally explained. “Yet she is also fearless, and curious – all good qualities to have in a hound. I nursed her when her siblings would not let her feed, and now that she is old enough to start following her nose I fear for how far she may have wandered off.”  
  
Image of Skaði with her hounds yapping at her feet suddenly assaulted Ragnar's mind, and he could picture Lagertha with a bow held in hand while a great dog bounded into the wood, fast on the scent of a deer. He could see the hunt in her eyes; could imagine the certainty in the firece line her mouth would make, and -  
  
But he blinked, and squared his own jaw to state with certainty: “A pup that young could not have gone far.”  
  
“You would stay to help me?” Lagertha blinked, and Ragnar read the surprise in her eyes. She paused, and stared at him as if he were a riddle – an uncertain thing that she could not quite define.  
  
“This means much to you,” it was simple for Ragnar to explain, wondering what sort of man would simply drop off a token of his regard and then not linger to prove his intentions through. “And,” this his voice dropped wryly to say, “I have much experience with tracking down wayward goats. This should not be so different.”  
  
Surprise was quick to give way to humor, and Lagertha snorted in reply to his admission. He could make her smile, even in her grief and worry, he thought then, and that knowledge was a heady, intoxicating thing to his heart.  
  
“What does the little one look like?” Ragnar asked as they headed towards the line of trees framing the fields.  
  
“She is white, all white,” Lagertha answered.  
  
“She bears Heimdallr's mark?” Ragnar noted, surprised.  
  
“Hopefully she also has his eyes . . . and his protection too,” Lagertha said, and her voice was a whisper falling back to him as she picked up her pace.  
  
Once they got close enough to the trees, they both started to call Asný's name. The land started to dip after the start of the forest, but there were smells aplenty for a curious pup to follow, just as there were dozens of ways a young creature could be trapped from returning the way they'd came. Here, the excess water from the fields was channeled down the steeply inclining slopes to a running stream – which was already starting to freeze with the early onset of the winter, and while Ragnar hoped that they would not find the hound here, he thought . . .  
  
Sure enough, they heard a small, yapping noise, and Lagertha was the one to pick out a path through the dense trees to find where a deep ravine cut into the land – with roots growing thick and stubborn over the rocky outcropping, seeking out where the rushing stream ran below with the drainage from the fields, finding its way to the sea in Kattagat's bay.  
  
It was easy to see how the pup had slipped down the slope, and could not get back up. Even so, she barked her tiny, high-pitched bark at the steep way, and her white coat was liberally streaked with mud from her failed attempts to make it back up. She was a tiny thing, Ragnar thought, and she was clearly shivering from the cold mud and slowly freezing ground underneath her paws. The sun set earlier and earlier as the winter season approached, and already the approaching dark was making the temperature drop at a staggering rate; the pup would not have survived long had she not been found.  
  
Seeing Lagertha, however, the hound's tired yaps picked up in intensity, and she pitifully tried to scale the slope yet again, before sliding back down towards the bank of the creek. She threw her small head back and let out her version of a mournful howl, and the sound clearly threw Lagertha into action.  
  
Not wasting a moment, Lagertha tied her hair back and rolled up her sleeves to scale the slope when Ragnar held a hand out to grab her wrist, staying her.  
  
“No,” he said simply. “Let me.”  
  
Her eyes narrowed, and he spoke before she could – easily reading her thoughts from the churning sea in her eyes. “I do not doubt your ability, shield-maiden . . . only, your dress is clean, while mine . . .”  
  
She rose a brow, and he saw the questions in her gaze when she finally noticed the dried mud and blood he had not been able to clean away. She opened her mouth once, before closing it again, and then she simply backed away to give him room enough to descend into the ravine.  
  
Getting down the slope was not terribly difficult. The roots and rocks were cold underneath his hands, and the way was slick underfoot – especially where the moss and leaf rot was covered with a fine, delicate layer of frost from where the moisture this close to the creek was beginning to freeze – but he made his way down quickly enough. It was not the descent that gave him concern, but rather, the way back up that he would have to accomplish one-handed.  
  
Yet, he felt for all the world as Sigurd, making his way through flame and thorns to Brünnhilde's side, proving his worth with every step he took, and by the time he knelt in front of the shivering puppy, his heart was beating wildly in his chest – as if he were standing beneath a shield-wall, or feeling the waves clash with the ship they tried to keep free from Njörðr's keeping . . .  
  
The puppy was distrustful at first – barking at him while she backed as close to the stream as she could without getting herself wet, but when Ragnar reached out and picked her up by the scruff of the neck, she soon quieted as she snuggled into the warmth of his chest. He cooed into her ear to further calm her, feeling her furious heartbeat and trembling shivers rack through her small body with no small amount of concern.  
  
He looked up to see Lagertha peering down into the ravine, and he flashed what a smile he could. It was not so easy climbing up with one hand, but he kept his going slow, not wanting to slip or fall backwards with the puppy in hand, and when he at last rose high enough for Lagertha to reach forward and take Asný from him, he caught sight of the soft look she wore in her eyes. In the half-light of the wood, her gaze was very, very bright, and for a moment he found himself quite taken. He knew that he was staring stupidly, but he could not quite bring himself to look away as -  
  
His moment of inattention had him choosing a poor food-hold, and he felt himself slip. Unfortunately, his trying to right himself just compromised his balance further, and before he knew it he was sliding back down the slope. His momentum over the slick way was such that he tried to step backwards to fix, which, unfortunately, only led to him stepping on the new ice forming over the running creek water, which his weight broke through _entirely_ -  
  
\- a heartbeat later he blinked up from his spot in the middle of the stream, stunned to have found himself on his back as the running water ran blithely over him, caring not for the obstacle he presented. The water was cold, he thought next, standing as quickly as he could and grimacing at the muck and mire that now coated him in a rather unflattering mess. He could not bring himself to meet Lagertha's eyes as he climbed out of the ravine – this time with both of his hands free to him – and his cheeks burned as he reflected that never once did Sigurd fall backwards into the flames after accomplishing his task in the stories, and shame was a hot, uncomfortable thing in his gut as he imagined what she must have thought of his clumsy lack of grace.  
  
Yet, when he finally freed himself from the gorge, he looked to see that Lagertha was not looking at him at all – but at the puppy.  
  
“We came just in time,” Lagertha smiled to say. She had the hound wrapped tightly in her woolen shawl, and was doing her best to wipe the puppy's face clean of the cold river mud. “She will be okay once cleaned up and warmed by the fire.”  
  
And Ragnar could only gape – knowing that none of the blue of his tunic was noticeable from the mire covering him, and feeling the drying mud on his face crack with his glower as he stammered, “You are concerned for the _dog_?”  
  
He was starting to seriously shiver, he thought then – the combination of the freezing water and cold air not _at all_ being good for his health, and -  
  
But Lagertha laughed a light and breathless laugh, and he felt the tips of his ears burn, thinking only to hear _derision_ in the sound before suddenly she stepped in close to him, and unexpectedly she kissed him, uncaring of the mud and muck coating him as she pressed herself close to his body – for a moment making him forget the wet and the cold as he felt only _heat_ , and he could not help but cup her face in his hands and return the kiss. For a moment, her mouth was a warring thing, taking and conquering, before she drew away from him with a smile, her warmth gone as quickly as it had been shared.  
  
He was stunned as he stared owlishly at her. He blinked, and would have thought that he'd imagined the entire moment had it not been for the muddy streaks his hands had left on the pale skin of her face.  
  
“Come back to the house, and we shall get you cleaned up,” Lagertha bid him with a smile. “You deserve our hospitality after your daring feat; it is the least I can do to repay you.”  
  
“And what if I demanded a reward greater than your hospitality?” even so, Ragnar could not help but ask. When he stepped in close to her, she did not back away, but rather, looked up to meet his eyes.  
  
For a moment, she bit her lip, and pretended to consider before offering, “We still have a surplus of oats from the market week, if that would appease you?”  
  
When they turned to walk back towards the farm, he looped an arm over her shoulders, and shared her warmth as he said, “It will be a start.”  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
“ . . . but as I was on my way to confess my love, I was set upon by a massive bear, whom I did battle with a spear. And yet my victory was short lived, for no sooner than a heartbeat was I faced by a most fearsome hound, whom I had to strangle with my bare hands . . . And that is how I gained her heart, and her hand in marriage.”  
  
The end of his tale had a smile touching his daughter's eyes - so much so that he did not linger overmuch on the way her thin brow arched in a way that was all her mother, with her clearly deciding to merely accept the story, rather than questioning what she knew to be an untruth, sensible girl that she was. Björn simply rolled his eyes as if he was too old for such stories, and Ragnar did not shame his son by saying that instead of tales of dragon-slayers, this was one he too had asked for not too long ago.  
  
But he shooed his children off to bed afterward, kissing his daughter's cheek and ruffling his son's hair before Björn could escape him - muttering underneath his breath, even when his eyes were pleased for the affection.  
  
That evening routine completed, he then looked back to where Athelstan was still tidying up from supper – as Lagertha was out assisting with the birth of one of the goats, and could not do so herself. Ragnar reached over for his still half full mug of ale, and tilted his head as he watched the newest addition to his household – who, most of the time, was a quiet and skittish creature who nonetheless tried his best to adapt to the way his life had upturned and spun about him, far as he now was from both Anglia and the monastery that had so long been his home. But there was _something_ in his eyes now – a glint, a _glitter_ – and Ragnar knew that the other man was amused.  
  
“You look as if you did not enjoy my story, priest,” he confronted him outright, intrigued by the emergence of the _man_ he could see from the meek sort of mouse he'd so far been.  
  
“Oh, no – not that,” Athelstan denied. Ragnar frowned, thinking that perhaps he was a deer, startled before a hunter's bow, with his wide eyes and restless hands, rather than a mouse.  
  
“There is something on your mind – I would have you speak of it,” Ragnar waved a hand to say. He waited one moment, and then two, watching as the priest found his courage, and then his voice to say:  
  
“Only . . . Lagertha . . . she told nearly the same story . . . but not quite.”  
  
Because _of course_ his wife and his stolen thrall would have been gossiping like maids together while he saw to the fields. Ragnar frowned, but could not help but prod the priest by saying, “You would call my words false, then?”  
  
But Athelstan neatly sidestepped his accusation. “Not false,” he did not quite agree. “Merely different.”  
  
“How did she tell the tale, then?” Ragnar leaned back in a lazy pose to challenge.  
  
“I did not, to start, compare your brother to a _bear_ ,” was Lagertha's unexpected response as she entered the house, wiping her bloody hands on her apron and narrowing her eyes to look his way – prompting Ragnar to summon a bland smile and pretend to be unaffected as he found his feet.  
  
“Well . . . he is certainly hairy enough,” Ragnar pointed out.  
  
“So says you . . . _Lothbrok,_ ” Lagertha's smirk was too pleased in answer.  
  
“My father's _name_ I bear with pride . . . even though Rollo may physically embody it.”  
  
“Just as I'm sure that the pup was a . . . most fearsome hound,” Lagertha shook her head to say, even as she ducked into the circle of her arms. “Asný is still your favourite, and you spoil her with treats.”  
  
From where he had been washing the food scraps off of the plates, Athelstan made a sound that was suspiciously like a stifled chortle, which turned into a most dubious cough.  
  
Ragnar glared at the priest before looking down at Lagertha. “You betray me, wife – I have been unmanned in my own house.”  
  
“I merely see strength as, perhaps, the gods do,” Lagertha replied, and he could read the fondness in her blue eyes, so much so that he could not help himself. He put his hand at the back of her neck to kiss her, and no matter their years together, familiarity did not yet mean a loss of novelty, and when she accepted his challenge and licked into his mouth he felt a low rumble rise from the deep of his throat, wanting -  
  
“Not now,” even so, Lagertha pushed him back with a roll of her eyes – and he looked over to see that Athelstan had quickly blushed and turned away, which only served to amuse him all the more so.  
  
“For now I need your hands for something else, husband,” Lagertha's eyes nonetheless glittered, and he read the promise in her gaze before she turned to Athelstan to say, “Priest, bring the hot water from the kettle and clean towels; the birth is not going as smoothly as I'd hoped, and it is time you learned another life lesson that your monastery did not see fit to teach you.”  
  
She then turned to return the barn, and Ragnar helped Athelstan gather what was needed. He was intent about his task – valuing life as much as he honored death, and he looked to see Athelstan carefully watching him, as if he could not quite make up his mind about a weighty matter, long burdening him. The light from the still flickering fire caught where the shaved top of his head was starting to grow back in without his attempts to hack blindly away at the skin, and Ragnar watched as his hand made a fist, as if fighting the urge to reach for the token of his Christ-god that he faithfully wore about his neck.  
  
“How shall you tell this story in the years to come?” Athelstan finally asked. “Do we embark to slay a fearsome horned creature?”  
  
“The fiercest,” Ragnar agreed sagely, delighted that the priest was forgetting himself long enough to play along. “Our legends have just the thing, you know.”  
  
“As do mine,” Athelstan said, though his voice was soft. At first, Ragnar did not think that he meant to speak aloud.  
  
“Your scriptures have such a beast in their pages?” he titled his head curiously to ask.  
  
“ . . . only one, but of him we are warned most adamantly,” Athelstan's look was quiet for a moment – somber and reflective – before he turned to look him squarely, boldly in the eye to say, “Yet . . . I am coming to find that not all stories are first as they seem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Heimdallr** : The watchman of the bifröst, known for his keen eyesight, who is also referred to as the 'whitest' of the gods.
> 
>  **Skaði** : A goddess of winter and hunting.
> 
>  **Njörðr** : The god of the seas.
> 
>  **Lothbrok** : Means 'hairy breeches' and is more of an earned nick-name than a family name. But since the show has used it as a last name for Ragnar and Rollo, and the origins comic used it as the name of their father, I have kept to that usage here.


End file.
